


Of Feathers And Scales

by EveandJohnny



Series: Disruptions In The Province [2]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch, The Invisible Library - Genevieve Cogman
Genre: Dragons, Multi, Novella: The October Man, which I allowed myself to borrow from The Invisible Library
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveandJohnny/pseuds/EveandJohnny
Summary: During the investigations of the murderous ghost a cryptic dagger has appeared. As it's from England - and probably involved with some "weird shit" - the Folly has to be brought in. Because Peter's indisposed and Abigail too young for a mission abroad, Nightingale has to go himself. And murderous ghosts are not the only surprises the German province can lay on.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale & The Chief|Helga Peters, Tobias Winter & Vanessa Sommer
Series: Disruptions In The Province [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725070
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	1. Alphas

**Author's Note:**

> Spin-off/sequel to Dead Waters.

„Detective Chief Inspector Nightingale.”

“Director Peters.”

The greetings exchanged were professional but stance and tone of the people exchanging them were more than subcooled. The other passengers streaming from the arrival area at the airport in Leipzig instinctively parted around the two of them, keeping a healthy distance of at least half a meter.

“So a case of yours has unearthed an artefact we were looking for?” Nightingale remarked while the two of them began to move towards the exit.

The heels of the Chief clicked on the tiled floor. She had no problem keeping up the pace Nightingale was setting with his long strides. “Seems like it. My officers are also tracking down a murderous ghost.”

“In case of necessity, I’m willing to offer my help in this situation.”

The Chief huffed nearly inaudibly. “I hold my officers capable of managing that themselves. We’ll see about that when the time has actually come. First and foremost, you are here because of the dagger.”

They had reached the Chief’s car, a sleek AMG GT S coupé in copper that many a passing traveller ogled with undisguised admiration. Nightingale had already gotten into the car while the Chief was opening her trunk to retrieve something from a built-in safe. Before starting the V8 engine she handed Nightingale a file.

“That is everything we know about the object so far” she said while she dashed from the parking lot and down the approach road that led to the motorway.

Nightingale gripped the handle at the headlining trying to flip through the photos with the left hand. “Any suggestions on how the dagger found its way here?”

“I had hoped you could enlighten me about that.” She overtook a queue of lorries in hair-raising speed.

After examining the photographs that had been taken of every angle of the artefact he expertly muttered “Early 18th century, hilt made of common hornbeam, brass embellishments, 40 layers of steel, Damascene cauterising.” He picked up one of the pictures that showed a certain detail: a crest displaying a white horse on red ground, additionally with golden leaves framing the horse. Nightingale slightly frowned.

The Chief, despite pushing the pedal all the way down, looked sideways at him. “So, what does it all mean?”

“I recognize this crest. It belonged to Alfred Bourne from Maidstone in Kent. He was the county practitioner there between 1738 and 1750. I wonder what interest the demi-monde could have in the dagger.” He pulled out his phone, an old school flip model, and scrolled through his numbers. He was about to stop at G but then remembered that at the moment there was no one with the name Grant on the Folly’s payroll. He pressed his lips together to push through the suddenly bursting ache in his chest. Then he scrolled further down to Kamara.

“Nightingale? Molly told me that you’d flown off to Germany” Abigail answered the phone without a greeting, as it was her habit.

Nightingale had an educational remark on his tongue but decided to postpone the schooling in manners to when he was back at the Folly. Instead he said “Can you do me a favour and look up the Incident Books of one Alfred Bourne in the library? Send me them via express mail, locked up of course.”

“Aye sir. Gonna be at it right away. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all for now.” He flipped his phone shut reluctantly. He still had to get used to it but Abigail not only renounced greetings, she also steered clear of goodbyes. To avoid inconveniencing her on the matter, Nightingale had decided to not say goodbye to her as well.

“Care to inform me about what a county practitioner is?” The Chief left the motorway, taking the turn in a manner every official of a moose test would throw their hands up in horror at.

Nightingale merely blinked. “County practitioners recorded unusual happenings in their area and then reported them to the Folly. That was before we were part of the Met.”

“How do you think they smuggled the dagger into the country? I assume that you had put it on the wanted list?”

“Well...” Nightingale arrayed the pictures and put them back into the file. “Not in the most pressing manner. It hadn’t been our immediate concern. But we had sent out pictures to all airports in the country and asked on report backs if anything caught the security’s attention.”

“And nothing had caught the security’s attention?” The Chief’s tone was doubtful and a hint amused.

Nightingale looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “No. Though the dagger might have found its way out of the UK by land and sea. And border control there is less strict than at the airport. We’re still in the EU after all.”

“Agreed.”

For the rest of the drive they stayed silent, everything else needed to be discussed at the makeshift headquarter at a manor in a neighbouring village of Lake Hain.

“How did you convince the owners to leave the house to you?” Nightingale stood for a moment before the entrance door and looked up at the two-storey high, off-white facade with its cream-coloured median risalit and corner stuccos, towards the crimson red mansard hipped roof. Then he turned to survey the surroundings. The yard was rugged to put it mildly, the borders of the adjacent properties looked as if they’d been drawn by a drunk, and there was rubble and abandoned flora everywhere.

“They are out of the country for a longer holiday and we hope to be gone from here before they return.” Following Nightingale’s gaze, the Chief said “Everything you see used to belong to the manor but after the turnaround the city council gradually split up the premises.”

Nightingale walked past her with a raised brow as she beckoned him inside. “They don’t know?”

“And they never will. Tea?”

“Thank you but no thank you.”

The Chief flipped her long blonde ponytail over her shoulder and eyed him amusedly. “Ah yes, I forgot. Pardon me. Please, eat and drink freely with no obligation. And all that jazz.”

“Well, in that case, I’d like to have a cuppa then.”

The Chief just smiled to herself and proceeded into the kitchenette.

***

  
Having her legs crossed, one foot in brightly red patent pointed heel bobbing up and down, the Chief examined Nightingale. She would never think he was nearly a hundred and twenty years old if she hadn’t seen his birth certificate. A few grey strands in the neatly combed chestnut hair. Lean, sportive figure that betrayed the long-term athlete. Chiselled features, trying to hide a bone-deep fatigue. Handsome, if one would fall for men that is.

It had been about a couple of decades since she had met him the last time. And while he had always given off the impression to be too old for whatever madness was happening around him she didn’t remember him to be this tired.

“What happened to you that you look so exhausted?” she asked, stirring in her cup.

A pained expression crossed Nightingales face. “If I start telling you about this, we will sit here for at least a week or two. And I don’t think we have time for that.”

“Very well, that is your decision. Though there are rumours circling in the magical institutions around Europe. That you have lost your Starling for instance.” She eyed him over the rim of her cat-eye glasses.

Nightingale nearly winced but managed to keep his composure by clenching the hand that was concealed in his lap into a tight fist. “He was suspended from duty, yes. Though it was time for a break for him anyway.” Then he looked up with an expression that bordered a sneer. “And I’ve heard that you’ve taken in a second apprentice.”

“Just as you have. Abigail Kamara is certainly not just your secretary.”

“If you are so well-informed, why do you ask?” He sipped his tea louder than necessary.

The Chief smirked. “I just needed confirmation. Yes, Vanessa Sommer joined us after a case in her hometown Trier. She has shown a pronounced talent in finding vestigia.” After a breathe she added “Among other things.”

“I see. By the way, the magical community, at least in Europe, seems to be a flock of birds now.”

“In which sense?” The Chief put her fingertips together, showcasing her sharp red fingernails.

“The Folly is not the only department to trade under ornithological names.” He made a meaningful pause. “You are The Snake Killer.”

“Am I now?” The Chief raised her eyebrows, not entirely sure if she was supposed to feel offended or flattered.

Nightingale nodded. “Tobias Winter is The Blackstart and Vanessa Sommer The Chickadee. I do like the ironic coincidence that their surnames are.”

The Chief kept herself from rolling her eyes. “German can indeed be funny sometimes” she confirmed. “And how did the nick names come to be?”

Nightingale shrugged. “How did Peter’s come to be?” he asked back.

Before the Chief could reply her phone rang. “Winter? Oh, you have caught the ghost. Excellent. Bring them to me, I’ll take care of the rest. Pardon? Yes, he’s arrived. Alright then, I expect you here by no later than half an hour. Goodbye.”

“Suspect caught?”

She nodded.

Nightingale drank his remaining tea, then he asked “Care to show me a place for the night? There’s not a lot I can do before the files from the Folly have arrived. And that won’t be before tomorrow morning.”

“Of course. This way please.” She led him up a flight of stairs to a most modernistic furnished bedroom, quite a contrast to the Biedermeier furnishing on the ground floor. “The master’s bedroom is all yours.”

A sideway glance, Nightingale was not sure if she was mocking him. But she just left him standing in the door. Nightingale put his bag on the king size bed, all black and chrome, and trolled out his washbag. From between his fresh clothing slipped a picture Peter had sent him. It showed him and Beverley as they were standing in a meadow full of flowers, both caressing Beverley’s growing bump. He sighed, then carried on to the bathroom.


	2. Asking The Ancients

Nightingale was pacing to and fro in the lobby the entire morning since he had gotten up at around six. The Chief sat at an old oaken desk in the adjoining room, typing away with meticulously manicured fingers - today they were black - but she never let Nightingale out of sight.

When the bell rang Nightingale all but jumped and then rushed to the door. The Chief followed him. Nightingale opened the door to an unassuming delivery person with an awestruck expression. They blinked at the double attractiveness they were faced with.

“Good, uh, morning. An express delivery for Thomas Nightingale?”

“That’s him, thank you.” The Chief sounded as friendly as Nightingale had never heard her before.

Nightingale signed the pad and accepted the parcel. “Danke” he said with a heavy accent. His German was quite rusty, the last time he had used it for longer was over seventy years ago.

The delivery person just nodded enthralled and retreated back to the mail van.

Nightingale closed the door. The Chief was still standing beside him. With a long look he told her that she should back away as this was his case.

And her look told him that this was just as much her case. With a syrupy smile.

He sighed.

They both walked back to the desk where the Chief pushed her laptop to one side to make space for the files.

Nightingale unpacked the parcel and retrieved thirteen thinly bound volumes. Each one was neatly labelled with a year between 1738 and 1750, and bore the stamp of Bourne’s family crest.

“So what do you hope to find in here?” the Chief leaned over his shoulder to have a better look into the books.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe there is a connection between an incident in Kent and this place. Though I wouldn’t know what this could look like.”

“The murderer my officers could corner is descended from the Ernesti family in Kahnsdorf.”

“So we should look out for that?”

“I’d suggest that, at least for a first lead. Let me help you look. You start with the even years and I take the uneven ones.”

Nightingale looked at her, surprised. He hadn’t expected her to be this cooperative.

She noticed his gaze and answered without looking directly at him. “It’s in everyone’s interest to solve this as quickly as possible. Whoever has brought the dagger here has breached our import restrictions and I very much like to keep our plate clean from other country’s conflicts.”

Nightingale nodded to himself. Sounded fair enough. He opened the first book and bent down to read the abominable handwriting. Bourne’s scripts were a mess. Albeit the outside promised a neat account of events, the inside was all over the place. Maybe Bourne had just confounded the pages before binding them. He stole a glance to the side when the Chief groaned.

“What an atrocity!” She turned to Nightingale. „How could the Folly support such slack working manners?“

He shrugged. “Bourne worked for the Folly before it became a governmental association. They didn’t exactly meddle with what was going on in the countryside.”

To this, the Chief just shook her head, flaring her nostrils for a second before she continued working through the reports.

Nightingale resumed his work as well.

_April 17 th: Brownjohn, Millard has seen naked women dancing at the edge of the woods, insisted on having heard mysterious chants._

_January 25 th: Baker, Agnes reported on seeing her vegetables rot right before her eyes, accompanied by an evil laugh.”_

_September 2 nd: Thornthrott, Hester and Millicent say they’d been possessed by a ghost while cleaning the house. Now everything’s supposed to be covered in ox blood. Seemed not possessed to me. Always had a thing for the overly dramatic._

Just as he was about to close the first book the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it” the Chief said and got up. She came back with her apprentices. “DCI Nightingale, let me introduce you to the Detective Superintendents Tobias Winter and Vanessa Sommer.”

Nightingale got up to shake hands with them. Tobi looked a lot less enthusiastic than Vanessa who was rather pleased to meet him. “We are currently investigating the accounts of the owner of the dagger that was found at your crime scene” Nightingale explained after common courtesies had been exchanged.

They both nodded. “Found anything interesting?” Tobi asked.

“Not yet” The Chief shook her head. “Mind helping us out?” She handed them one book each before they could react to the question.

Begrudgingly, Tobi took his. He’d come here with different intentions but those had to wait. He could hardly argue with his boss in front of a higher-ranked police officer, and a foreign practitioner at that.

***

With the work shared between four, they were finished working through the volumes before lunchtime. With unsatisfactory results:

“I had nothing about the Ernesti family in my books” Nightingale said.

“There were also no places around here mentioned. Just moderately interesting accounts of strange things” the Chief added.

Tobias and Vanessa just shook their heads in agreement. Tobias crossed his arms in front of his chest and fixed his gaze on Nightingale. “Detective Inspector, I’d have a question for you.”

Nightingale raised an eyebrow in interest. “And that would be?”

“In our investigations we were also involved with the local genius loci. Her name is Pleia and she seemed to be acquainted with you. How come?”

Nightingale sighed in agony. He clasped his hands and leaned back like a trained storyteller about to tell children a tale - but he’d frighten all the children with the unease he radiated. “I met her mid-April ’45. After we, uhm, had raided Ettersberg -” he quickly looked around and the rest nodded solemnly in recollection of what they knew about the operation “- we first retreated back to England to review our results and, uhm, recover from our losses. Afterwards, we swarmed out again to check on the subcamps of Buchenwald.

The plane I was on was shot down somewhere over Merseburg, the archies thought we were about to drop bombs over Leipzig. My pilot, Colonel Bennet Duboir, and I struggled along for two days through rural Saxony and were completely exhausted by the time we reached the Pleiße. At the time, spring floods had filled the river and we were unable to cross. We tried wading through the water anyway but it was no use. We were swept away by the water. I blacked out somewhere along the way.

Two days later, at least that’s what I was told, I regained consciousness. A woman stood above me. She had flowing blonde hair and seemed well-fed despite all the hunger around us. Having recognized my cane as a staff, she told me freely that she was the genius loci, Pleia, and that she had saved us. Dubior had died of a sepsis in the two days I had been unconscious. It was also her who told me that my mission was futile, Flößberg had been closed the day we were shot down. She had heard the news from the local genius there, Hyla.

After I had recovered, at least as far as I could under those circumstances, she organized a transfer back to the UK via an underground network of the resistance. And that is how I met the river goddess Pleia.”

Tobi muttered something along the lines of “A little less explanation would have sufficed” but Vanessa was completely enraptured by his tale.

Suddenly Nightingale’s flip phone rang. He answered it and the longer the call lasted the paler he went. Curiously, the KDA watched him until he had enough and got up from his chair and left the room.

“And you are sure about this?” he asked reaffirming.

“If you want I’ll ask Postmartin to confirm the validity of the document, but I’m at least 85% sure it’s plausible” Abigail offered.

Nightingale nodded to himself. “Take the deed to him, yes, and I mean in person. But until then I take your word for granted and we will start investigating on your lead. Thank you for your help, Abigail.”

“Sure thing. How are the Germans?“ She giggled.

He coughed. “Bearable. But less strenuous than expected. It works so far.” He went back to the “office”, greeted by three expectantly staring practitioners.

“You don’t look like you have good news” the Chief remarked.

Nightingale shrugged and started gathering up Bourne’s accounts. “My conduit has found something interesting in a different part of the Folly library. Though it might not make things easier. Our friend Bourne was part of a secret society of European practitioners. The dagger seemed to have been part of their initiation ritual.”

“Still not an explanation as to how the dagger got here“ Tobi said.

“That’s correct, DS Winter. But we might find a trace in the member lists.”

“And you think that there any? When it’s a _secret_ society.” Tobi’s voice was basically dripping with doubt.

“The Folly is pretty well-informed - and we have our sources. We just need a little bit of time.” He then looked to the Chief. “I’ll make tea for us while we wait.“

She nodded. When Nightingale had left the room she leaned towards Tobi. “Winter, why do you have such a strong aversion towards him?”

He shrugged, picking up a Bourne account at random and flipping it over between his palms, and said “Nightingale here, Nightingale there. No matter where we go, he was already there. And I don’t remember my school exchange to England very fondly. The British still pride themselves too much upon their imperialistic past.”

Vanessa looked at him rapidly blinking. The Chief raised one eyebrow, considering him for a moment before she broke out into laughter. Coughing indignantly, Tobi got up and stretched, then asked a little sourly “Where can I find the bathroom?”

“Down the hall, second door on the left” the Chief said.

He just nodded. In the doorframe, he nearly bumped into Nightingale who apologetically half-bowed. That only earned him a huff and an eye-roll from Tobi.

After Nightingale had handed out tea, they were sitting together in a somewhat awkward silence. To pass time, Vanessa produced her notebook from a pocket in her jacket to read through it again. One of the very first interviews they had had in the case of the murderous ghost, a few pages in after her initial notes on the matter, had been with Bianca. In recollection of their kiss she absentmindedly touched her lips and smiled.

Vanessa’s sudden shift in mood didn’t escape the Chief but she didn’t say anything.

While reading through the rough transcript, she suddenly froze. “Uhm, ma’am?” she started, her eyes nervously darting towards her boss.

“Yes, Sommer?” The Chief paused in taking another sip from her tea. The British - or at least Nightingale - did know how to make a good cuppa.

“Why have you chosen this building as head quarter?”

“Because its occupants are out of the country for a longer period of time and the house captivates with its central location.”

“No other reason?”

The Chief shook her head. „Is there anything I should know?”

“Well, I guess, yes. One of our main witnesses, Mrs Kernberg, has attributed this building to have a secret tunnel to the church in the neighbouring village. She has vouched to have once heard the voice of a priest reciting a sermon when she had been roaming the cellar of this house when it still had been neglected. She believes this to have come from ancient times, not from the current one. So according to that, there are ghosts here - or at least have been about ten years ago.”

“Interesting.” The Chief didn’t seem half as disturbed by the news as Vanessa had anticipated.

Nightingale though, sitting beside her, groaned.

“Afraid of ghosts, Detective Inspector?” she teased him.

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. But it makes this a lot more complicated. I’ve had my fair share of ghosts interfering in cases.”

“As Tobi - I mean, DS Winter - and I have” Vanessa couldn’t help but pride herself.

Nightingale looked her up and down with an unreadable expression. “Let’s still hope that we don’t have to use your expertise.”

Vanessa wasn’t sure if he was mocking her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyla is the old Sorbian name for the village Eula which this river passes. Via the river Wyhra it flows into the Pleiße. Eula is also the place whose church is connected with the KDA's makeshift headquarter.


	3. An Icy Finale

“I’d like to take a walk if you don’t mind” Nightingale said after a while.

The Chief made a non-committing gesture. “You are free to move as you please.”

Nightingale smiled and got up from his uncomfortable chair, stretching, which led to a bit of skin around his navel suddenly being exposed. Vanessa caught sight of it but quickly looked away. It was hardly appropriate for her to have seen this. When she met the Chief’s eyes she discovered her boss hiding a snicker. That left red patches on Vanessa’s face.

By now, Nightingale had made his way to the door and left the building. He had only gotten a glimpse on the surroundings so far. Now he wanted to give it more attention, looking out for vestigia and other possible clues left there by people who shouldn’t have been here in the first place.

The area was in a less desolate shape than he remembered; apart from the torn-up ground right before his feet the nearby houses were in varying states of maintenance. There were two new buildings on his right, the one hidden behind a high drystone wall painted in a faded bloody red and the other one wedged between this house, an older one, and an unused stable was coloured an astonishing egg yolk yellow. Nightingale shook his head. Who had allowed this?

On the other side of the yard were two semi-detached houses and square with them was a long building that contained apartments, a stable, and another residence. Rumour had it that somewhere on the premises had also been a distillery once. He walked along the at this part asphalted road to the next junction. The Chief had said this morning that the properties belonging to the mansion even stretched to the far end of the opposite street, where now a newly-built bungalow stood.

He turned right, up the hill, and then right again, passing the other side of the first stable whose wall used to extend to the end of the garden of the mansion but was now at points broken up for entrances to the red house and the mansion. On the left side of the road stood a club house, a timber cottage and, set back, two blocks of flats. Then suddenly cultivation and that little wood adjoining the garden receded. The view broadened, to the left was a field, this time of the year filled with golden wheat, and to the right undeveloped land where a horse and a donkey were grazing.

Nightingale halted, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was not, as the Brits called it, the sticks, not rural enough, but it was also not completely urban either. Craws cawed above his head, the donkey let out the sound of a water well in need of some oil, and there was the omnipresent rush of traffic from the through road beyond the path on the right.

He deepened his meditation. Under all the environmental noises was the hum of the power supply lines emanating from the substation nearby. And beyond all of this, barely tangible like a fragrance nearly dissolved, was ancient dust, chants of sermons, the flicker of candles.

Nightingale snapped his eyes open and focused on the undeveloped land. Looking left and right to check that nobody came down the so far deserted street between the two villages, he took a run, jumped at the massive oak standing between the otherwise meagre looking cherry trees, and vaulted himself over the electric fence. He could have also easily knocked that out with a spell but a little physical activity had never hurt.

The horse drew curiously nearer while the donkey bleated bewildered. Nightingale just made his way to the edge of the wood, and then turned to look south. Letting his senses feel the area like a dowser, he walked towards the village, following an invisible line. He was led by anomalies in the ground that could, with a little stretched imagination, actually have been tunnel.

When he reached the fence this time, he just dove under it and continued his walk, though not straightforward. A couple more strides and he would have stepped into a dense hedge. Instead he rounded the corner to find a pedestrian coming towards him. It was a young blonde man with an amicable face so he tried his luck. He tilted his head in greeting and then asked directions for the church. The man’s English was very good, only a little accent, and he didn’t seem to mind a British gentleman roaming around his village.

Nightingale thanked the young man, wished him a pleasant day and followed the man’s directions. Though he could have found the church without them as well. Just down this street, and he already saw it beside a sandy two-story classicist building that apparently housed the local kindergarten, and behind another huge oak tree. That was circled by a bench on which a group of teenagers loitered. They whispered to each other, then one of them shouted “Ey, old man, the time machine’s this way!” and laughed loud. Nightingale just greeted them with his cane, smirking a little on the inside about _how_ right the lad had been with the “old man”.

The church itself was a limewashed building with two nave bays, a bell tower, and slated roof. It had last been converted in the 19th  century but originated from the 12th . The most prominent feature were the crimson porphyry stones at the corners. Beside the church was the cemetery where some poor soul was tending to the grave of a loved one.

Nightingale tried the door handle. It was locked. A simple spell, quick enough to not draw attention from the youngsters, and he was in. Here it was cool but lighter than he’d expected; the sunlight streamed through generous leaded windows. Two rows of pews stood ahead while a gallery ran along the room on three sides. The fourth side right opposite of Nightingale was reserved for the altar.

Nightingale closed his eyes again to feel after vestigia. At first there was nothing except the old feel any church had.

But then something set his antennae quivering. There was the iron stench of blood, the dangerous sweat of a feral animal and screams of people in indescribable pain. He pulled out his phone to call the Chief and her sergeants for back-up.

***

He met them outside the church. “So there are those young people we have to avoid as casualties?” the Chief asked after they’d arrived.

“At least” Nightingale said “I saw another person at the cemetery before I went in.”

The Chief nodded. “I’ll get my sergeants to clear the area. Mind if I have a look at the vestigia myself?” Nightingale invited her with a gesture. She was silent for a solid minute, then she said “That does not look promising. The traces pool there.” She pointed to the vestry.

“It smells burned” Nightingale remarked.

“But that seems to be newer than the vestigia we felt. And not even half as dangerous.” They cautiously drew nearer until Nightingale opened the door from afar.

“Ma’am” a voice suddenly said behind them.

“Yes, Winter?”

“The area is cleared, no more spectators. Sommer keeps guard” Tobi said. The Chief nodded approvingly.

Suddenly, a chilling aura wafted through the church, leaving a metallic taste on Nightingale’s tongue that reminded him of the powder heavy air of the trenches. “There is something here” he said cautiously.

“And it shouldn’t be here” the Chief replied. She half raised her right hand and opened her palm, readying herself to unleash a third order spell in her defence. She changed that to a fourth order spell when the entire church went dark as if curtains had been drawn. Out of the door of the vestry snakes of smoke twirled. Finally, a shadowy figure stepped out of the portal.

The person was extraordinarily tall. Nightingale had seen quite a few basketball players, some of his rugby lads had scraped the two-metre-mark as well, but even without a benchmark basketball player at hand he could tell just _how_ tall the person was. Going out on a limb, Nightingale estimated them to be about 2.20 metre or even taller.

Their light brown face, showcasing an expression of shameless hawkishness, looked as if hewn out of marble: long and slender nose, curved lips, high and sharp cheekbones. Their sleek black hair with a little deep-sea-blue shimmer was braided and fell over their right shoulder. From their black, monolidded eyes they cast a disapproving glance on Nightingale, the Chief, and Tobi. And with that seashell dangling from their right earlobe they sort of looked like a pirate - albeit a very sophisticated one as they was clad in a maroon suit and burgundy tie, accentuating their slim waist.

“I think you have something that belongs to me” they growled.

“And I fear that we have to disappoint you.” The Chief positioned herself straddle-legged in front of them.

Nightingale leaned forward and whispered into her ear “You think it’s a good idea to affront them like that?”

“We won’t know if we don’t try, do we?” she replied out of the corner of her mouth. Louder did she say “Before any negotiations can happen we require your identity!”

“Not that this will be of any use to you, considering the fate that awaits you. But if you wish so ardently, very well then. My name is Li Han, or Sir Balthazar Woodrow, depending on who you ask. I’m a dragon.”

The Chief raised her eyebrows. „A dragon?“

Woodrow sneered. “Don’t believe me?” He blasted the piece of wall on his left away and disappeared through it.

They followed him outside with only a second of hesitation. Over their heads dark clouds started spinning.

“You’ve come to play with the wrong on!” Woodrow gnarled.

Before any of them could react, they were engulfed in a tornado of loose dirt, leaves, and grave decoration. They tried to shield themselves, Vanessa even went as far as to hide behind a particularly robust gravestone.

When the dust settled, she screamed in horror “Tobi!”

DS Winter dangled about twenty feet above the ground, desperately trying to escape the claw wrapped around his body. Especially perfidious was the raised index talon that threatened to slit his throat like a knife. The claw belonged to a gigantic dragon whose scales glittered iridescently blue and black in the afternoon sun. It raised its massive head and let out a roar that shook the cemetery and church in its foundations.

Curiously, nobody in the adjacent houses dared to look outside. Maybe they instinctively knew it was better not to.

“You have poked your long nose into something that was none of your business” the dragon addressed the Chief directly. “And now your minion has to pay for it.” It squeezed Tobi tighter who was only able to wheeze by now.

The Chief kept calm on the outside but inside she was boiling. Nobody threatened her DS! “What are your conditions?” The cutting edge in her voice even let Nightingale flinch.

“Give. Me. The. Dagger!”

To distract the dragon Nightingale asked “What happened at the construction site?”

The dragon narrowed his yellow eyes. “Nothing of importance. To you.”

“But I’m sure it must have been important and you are not pleased that you couldn’t end it properly I assume?”

The distraction tactic seemed to work, at least to the extent that the dragon loosened his grip on Tobi who breathed greedily. “My, if you are so keen on knowing, mortal, I will tell you. You’re going to take that information to your grave anyway. How convenient that we’re already at a grave side.”

The Chief glanced sideways at Nightingale, lowering her head a fraction, indicating that she was grateful for him trying to wind down the clock. That gave her more time to reevaluate her attack strategy. They had to work together, surely. She reckoned to cast a powerful _Impello_ first, to carry the dragon off his feet, though it needed _a lot_ of power. A fire spell wouldn’t work, in her experience countering fire with fire never achieved the desired results. Ice would probably be a better choice.

While she was thinking about the next steps, Woodrow started to elaborate “Back in the seventeenth century, intelligent men came together to work and promote their magic abilities. These were noble men, of aristocratic descent-” the dragon eyed Nightingale carefully, albeit patronizingly “-just like you, apparently. We were a sworn community. Bourne, Leatherfield, Harrington, Wu, Rosebud, and all the others. Oh, it was a wonderful time! We were respected, nobody tried to get in our way.” Woodrow raised the other claw with a talon poised and painted sparkling silhouettes into the air: gentlemen having tea around a fire place, browsing a library, practising magic together.

The vibrations his magic was giving off penetrated Nightingale’s skin, they were that strong. And Woodrow wasn’t even wielding an attack spell, only fair ground entertaining. In his mind, Nightingale was going through possible _formae_ , the most omnipotent he had in his repertoire. A little corner of his consciousness was occupied with the concern that Woodrow was hopefully unable to read minds. But he was doing his best to suppress it. This was not of immediate interest by now, it didn’t matter if Woodrow knew what he thought or not. A fight was due one way or another.

“But then one after another started dying. Not in suspicious intervals. To anyone outside, these were normal deaths, as much as people who’d been living for over two centuries could be described as normal anyway. But we knew that something was wrong _for certain_ when our third comrade died. We started investigating. More left us. We had no lead, no nothing. Until one of us, a doctor, dissected the most recent victims.”

Nightingale nodded. Badly dispensed magic. What he had seen on Walid’s table enough times to know what Woodrow was talking about.

“I am the only one left now, maybe a dragon’s brain is more resilient to it. Luckily, our society will be soon once again reunited! And it would have happened much sooner if the workers on the construction side of that new motorway hadn’t had such commendable working manners. They had started working at seven am on the dot, sabotaging my plan. I had to leave in a hurry and lost one of my most precious and necessary belongings. Which is now in your possession!” Woodrow roared, his patience seemingly running out.

But the Chief didn’t let herself be fooled that easily. If he really had been this impatient he had stopped babbling long ago and just gotten on with it. Woodrow was an imposter, albeit a rather arresting one. He liked to hear himself talk and show off his abilities. The fact that he was a dragon had made an impression on her, which he had wrecked though with kidnapping one of her sergeants.

“What had been your plan?” Vanessa suddenly asked. She’d been silent until now because she’d been too shocked. But the more time they all could buy the more Tobi’s survival seemed possible. She was unsure how much of a help she could be; compared to the DCI’s abilities hers were diminutive. Which would never let her combat readiness falter though.

Woodrow turned his head towards her and squinted. “And who are _you_?” he asked as if he was inquiring about an ant.

Vanessa inhaled deeply. “His friend.”

That seemed to put Woodrow off for a tiny fraction.

Which was a mistake.

The Chief fired an _Impello magno_ with enough force to fell an entire battalion. As desired, it brought the dragon down. It nearly swept them off their feet, too, but she, Nightingale, and Vanessa crouched down to keep their balance. Nightingale immediately let a fifth order spell follow to forcefully open the claw that gripped Tobi.

With all the strength that he could still muster, Tobi scrambled away from Woodrow, needily gobbling up air. Vanessa stumbled towards him, pulling him away even further. They took shelter behind a bush. She cradled him in her arms, rocking slightly to and fro.

"You're safe now" she whispered, her voice catching in her throat as she thought about what might had happened if he couldn't be saved.

“We got to help them” he panted but she firmly shook her head.

“You’re not gonna do anything. Just stay here.” She looked him sternly in the eyes and didn’t leave until he had nodded. After a last relentless glance she got up, grabbing a pointed steel rod that had been flung here during one of the previous turmoils, and charged towards the dragon. Her fear had been replaced by anger, by pure, boiling rage. Woodrow had kidnapped her partner - her friend - acted like the world was there for his entertainment only and had destroyed a sacred place. A heavy bill for hardly half an hour.

While Vanessa had rescued Tobi the Chief had cast another spell, this time tieing Woodrow’s extremities together. He was straining against them, spewing fire, but as the ties were just metaphysical he couldn’t simply burn them.

Vanessa wound up the pole and thrust it deep into the dragon’s wing. He roared in agony, rolled uncontrollably from side to side, and finally broke free from the imaginary ropes.

“Ordinary mortals!” he screamed and tried to get back on his feet.

In a reflex, Vanessa fired a rather feisty _Werelight_ with a little fiery tail that sizzled right into Woodrow’s eye. Woodrow roared in pain and lashed out, nearly hitting her but she could duck away in time and instead Woodrow flattened a row of gravestones. A look to her boss and Nightingale, and the view raised her hackles. They had both extended their fists, brows furrowed, and faces tightened in concentration. Even though they hadn’t yet cast a spell, she could feel the energy they were building up right were she was standing over ten feet away.

The Chief nodded, Nightingale nodded, and suddenly a blast of glacial wind, spiky ice shatters, and tiny cold water droplets ascended and plunged Woodrow into a freezing tornado. This time none of them shielded themselves, they stood straight and watched, waiting for their triumph.

When the ice dust cleared, the dragon lay frozen stiff on the ground in what must have been a terribly uncomfortably position. Vanessa’s makeshift spear still stuck in Woodrow’s wing. With a grim face she pulled it out.

Crrk.

At first it was only audible.

Crrk.

Then she also saw it. Fine hairline cracks started spreading from the wound, in a rapid speed they grew, expanded on the entire wing, then onto the rest of the body. When the dragon resembled kintsugi china, deafening silence pressed down onto the battlefield for a moment.

And then it all fell apart in just as thunderous a noise as the silence before.

The dragon splintered into a hundred thousand shards, littering the ground with a heap of glittering ice. Beautiful as it might have been, it didn’t last long. Before the sun could melt the ice, the Chief cast a fireball the size of a boulder and the dragon simply thawed into clear water that slowly seeped into the ground.

After a few minutes, there was nothing left of Woodrow except for a wet spot on the earth. Where he had lain the gravestones were ground up to rubble.

From beyond the graveyard’s wall blaring sirens came closer. Nightingale and the Chief exchanged a look. “Do we clean up that mess or leave it for them?” she asked.


	4. Bonus: Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline is probably totally jumbled as the stories are set in July/August 2018 but I presume that Aaronovitch is not there yet with this novels (I've never paid much attention to that ehem). I'm picking up at Lies Sleeping, though I have a hazy idea of what happens in False Value.


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